


This Darkness, Marching Under Our Eyelids

by Filigranka



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Morality, Enemies With Benefits, Hate Sex, I'm afraid it has more plot and dialogue and streams of consciousness than porn, M/M, OC, Power Imbalance, hate: connecting people, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 13:14:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15244164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: ‘When is Roche coming to see me?'‘He's a general. Hero of Temeria. The member of the Regency Council. And you think he will come just because you were kind enough to open your eyes? In your arrogance, I see the remnants of Aen Seidhe old glory.'‘I don’t think he will come because I am Aen Seidhe.’ Although this would be the one and only bearable explanation. ‘I think so because he ordered to put me near his rooms.’Or: Iorveth is saved. Sort of.





	This Darkness, Marching Under Our Eyelids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squickqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squickqueen/gifts).



> Written as a part of the creative exchange - for last Christmas, to be honest (and it was given on time! privately. I just needed time to do some SPAG re-edits before posting to AO3) - with lovely and sweet, and very talented Talimee. I absolutely adore the pictures she made for me - check them out if you're in Morrowind fandom:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/13349853  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/13349805
> 
> Nibiś helped me with English grammar and other scary creatures (thanks! <3). All remaining mistakes are my own.

 

It would be a terribly shameful death, thought Iorveth. Being captured by Dh'oine—check. Being captured by Dh'oine who weren't even part of any anti-Scoia'tael forces, but ordinary criminals, some rebel mages and remnants of the Salamander organisation—check. Being captured by accident—check. Being captured by Dh'oine who didn't know his name—check. Being treated like an interesting specimen, not a dreaded commander—check, check and check.

Which was to say, he didn't have much time to beat himself up over it. For the most time, he was unconscious, too high or in too much pain to make a coherent thought. And so, when he heard terrible noises outside of his cell, he took them as part of his own delirium. He was still believing it when the Dh'oine looking like Temerian soldiers ran into the room—it seemed like a fantasy of his dying mind. Relief washed over him; death would mean freedom.

The imagined soldiers stopped. Looked at him. Seemed surprised. Someone whistled.

‘Isn’t he...?’

‘Bloody Iorveth. Captured by some thugs. Damn, I feel bad for our soldiers. All these years wasted—’

‘Can we kill him?’ There was eagerness in the voice and Iorveth whole-heartedly agreed with it; he should be dead now, preferred to be dead now. ‘I’d love to get the fame of the one who killed The Fox of the Forest!’ Yeah, some nice, soothing words for his ego; definitely a trick of a dying mind.

The trick continued. ‘Why you? You weren’t even first in this room!’

‘I was the first to notice who he is!’

‘And I killed the last fucking guard!’

‘Man, let’s call a team job and—‘

‘We’re not killing him.’ The voiced sounded commanding and tired. An officer, presumably. ‘Do I need to remind you all that non-humans are under Emperor’s protection, now? Part of our alliance.’ He spat on the ground. ‘The orders say we should bring higher ranked Scoia’tael to the capital, if possible.’

The other voices seemed disappointed. Iorveth was disappointed, too. Was it the delirium’s way of telling him he needed to suffer longer?

‘Fetch a medic, he’s barely breathing. Tough son of a bitch.’ Officer, again. He stood right next to Iorveth. Funny, the elf hadn’t noticed when he moved—but that was the deal with visions and ghosts—‘Oh, and by the way,’ the man grabbed Iorveth’s hair, yanked his head and prepared his fist ‘this is for my brother.’

 

*

 

When Iorveth opened his eyes again—consciously, at least—most of the previous experiences seemed like a bad dream. He felt much better: his whole body hurt, but on a manageable level, and he could think clearly.

Also, he lied on a criminally soft bed in a luxurious room. Not in Aen Seidhe's tastes, he decided after few minutes of blinking and putting the pieces of his memory into their proper places. The decor—heavy with gold, curves, laces and little figurines, hunting landscapes and trophies—stank of typical Dh'oine's love for showing off and kitsch. No gracefulness and lightness, making elven own exaggerated mannerisms palatable.

He snorted and tried to say this aloud, just to test his desert-like throat and keep up his spirits. All he managed was a coughing-fit.

‘Esse'te, baegh.' "Here you are". Bowl of water—decorated with a hunting scene, of course—levitated itself right under his nose. He looked up, startled.

In the corner of the room stood, having appeared seemingly from thin air, an Aen Seidhe. The tired, blasé to the verge of boredom eyes, underlined by the dark makeup, betrayed his old age. He was dressed in expensive, silk robes, shining from some metal—silver, probably—threads weaved into it. Jewellery blinked on every uncovered part of his body, including the hair.

One of the old elite, obviously. Old enough to use magic for a thing like serving water. Iorveth, upon decades of freezing and starving in forests, hated said elite almost more than Dh’oine.

And this particular elder probably was, considering his clothes and the fact he stood in a Dh’oine’s castle, one of the mediators between non-humans and human rulers. A collaborator with the regime, then.

Iorveth sniffed suspiciously at the bowl.

‘It’s just water.’ The other elf was using Hen Linge; a nice change after all these months in Dh’oine’s prison. ‘Why would they poison you after all effort put into your healing? You’re no one. The war ended. Yaevinn and others serve in human armies, now.’ It sounded like scolding and Iorveth immediately took offence.

‘No slave of Dh’oine will talk to me like that.’

‘You may call me Darhael aep Vistulla. And I'm no more a slave than you are. At least humans didn't humiliate me. I didn't become a murderer. I lived in a nice house, cultivating our traditions, while you lived and fought just like humans do—recklessly, stupidly, ignoring the advice of the elders,' he spoke monotonously, without the slightest hint of emotion in his voice. ‘Humans didn't get a hold on my life. But yours is commanded by them. You're a slave of your hatred—even now. And even now humans have humiliated you, pitied you and use you in their little politics. You are a disgrace.' He sighed. ‘But a young one. We cannot afford to lose more of our youths. We're a dying species... And you, Scoia'tael, almost threw us over the edge.'

Iorveth gritted his teeth. None of it was surprising; elders had talked like that since Aelirenn's uprising or even longer. Since Aelirenn’s uprising or even longer it was infuriating. He wished to throw a "cuach te aep arse" at him, but then he would have to listen to preaching about "youths cursing like humans". And, what's worse, it would have been accurate.

He searched for the window instead—not an easy task in all these decorations—trying to guess his current whereabouts.

The windows were barred. Behind them—another solid wall. He must have been put in an inner bedroom of the castle. A secure one, one might say, but Iorveth bet it was meant as the interlude to interrogation. Denying him any piece of knowledge, confusing him.

He could ask Darhael, but it would hurt his pride, so he tried to recall something from the last moments of his imprisonment instead. The soldiers had worn Temerian colours and talked about the capital—

‘We are in Vyzima.’

‘Where else could we be?’ Darhael drawled every syllable. Funny, this manner had seemed much more elegant when Iorveth had been the one using it. ‘There’re no castles like that in the Blue Mountains and I would never let them send me to some provincial garrison.’

‘ _You_ would do whatever Dh’oine tell you to. They wanted _me_ in Vyzima.’

‘Typical Nilfgaardian procedure. They will offer you a commanding position in the army, that's what they do with Scoia'tael now. Also, you might know something about the group that caught you. And it's a good propaganda for Temeria; Regency Council already announced to the whole world they save even their personal foes because Temeria cares about her citizens no matter which shape their ears have. New, multicultural politics. Roche used this whole thing to warm his image. You're a pawn in the humans' game, always have been.'

Now, if one filtered all the typical elders’ riddles out, that was an interesting information.

‘Roche wanted me here? That’s why I got a nice—for Dh’oine nice—room, not a sweat-soaked bed in a lazar? That’s why _you_ ’re here, not some random servant?’

Darhael stilled, for a second. ‘Roche wanted you in the guest wing yes,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Near his own rooms. And the Council asked me to... help you. Use our magic to guide the human healers. Ease your coming back to senses. Sustain you with magic. You would be a mess after being unconscious this long without it.’

‘The Council doesn’t ask. They ordered _you_. Or perhaps Roche did, personally?’ Darhael didn’t move a muscle on his face, but he looked down for a moment and Iorveth couldn’t help smiling. ‘He did. I might be a pawn, but what are you, then? The pawn’s assistance? The pawn’s servant? The pawn’s pawn—’

‘Any other silly puns up your sleeve?’

‘What about yours? Nothing else than my puns to feel superior about?’

That gave Darhael a pause. ‘It’s not about me feeling superior. It’s about your generation understanding their mistakes,’ he announced finally and Iorveth chuckled. His patched-up sides punished him severely, but still—worth it.

‘Meeting with Roche must feel horrible to you,’ he said. ‘All these disrespect and swearing, and no understanding of your cultivated traditions—’

‘It felt normal. Roche and I had met before. I’d got used to his manners years ago.'

‘You sold us? Or did you just spy for him, betraying the trust our community placed in—‘

‘Actually, I was working on behalf of our community. Even Foltest’s favourite dog couldn’t act in Vyzima the way he acted in the province. Sometimes, by some miracle, we got a trial. Or the compensation for the innocent blood. Unlike you, I’ve no illusions or obsessions about this man, but he could hardly offend me anymore.’

Something rang true in his words, but this truth would be uncomfortable for Iorveth, so he decided to focus on the easier part.

‘I’m not obsessed. I just want to know why I’m important enough for Roche to personally ask for your—‘

‘Ah,' Darhael smiled. ‘This is easy. He said he owed you. Apparently, you have spared his life, once. A rather strange move for a Scoia'tael commander.'

Iorveth went still. If the news about this spread, he would be done. His name forever tainted, his honour forever lost...

‘It was a profitable tactic move. He was chasing our enemies at that moment. And had some information,’ he lied easily. Unfortunately, Darhael didn’t seem convinced.

‘He wouldn’t treat it like a debt, then. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone about your shameful moment of—whatever it was. I only hope you didn’t waste your one and only shred of compassion on him, instead of showing it to some civilians.’ Upon hearing silence in return, his face hardened. ‘Don’t bother. I already regret the question.’

‘It wasn’t compassion. I hated—hate him.’

‘Hate is just another form of obsession. A strong emotion, unworthy of Aen Seidhe. But what would you know about it?’

‘Whatever my blood could buy,’ barked Iorveth. Mention of sacrifice usually shut the elders up. But Darhael was, unfortunately, the exception proving the rule.

‘It wasn’t your blood. It was mostly the blood of civilians and innocents. They didn’t have any say in the matter.’ He shrugged, lightly and dignifiedly. ‘I’m not here to discuss ideology with you. Nobody asked me to make Roche’s interrogation easier. I’m sure he’ll manage on his own.’ His laughter sounded rusty and bitter.

Iorveth admitted he was glad for a chance to change the subject—admitted it and immediately swore to never think of it again. A weakness of commanders is a weakness of the whole cause. ‘When is he coming to see me?'

‘He's a general. Hero of Temeria. The member of the Regency Council. And you think he will come just because you were kind enough to open your eyes? In your arrogance, I see the remnants of Aen Seidhe old glory.'

‘I don’t think he will come because I am Aen Seidhe.’ Although this would be the one and only bearable explanation. ‘I think so because he ordered to put me near his wing.’

Darhael felt silent. The most certain proof Iorveth was right.

‘He might want to talk with you. But it is arrogance which makes you believe he would wait, nervously pacing, at your door. He told us to take care of you and went back to his work. Currently, he’s in Nilfgaard, on Empire annual parade. He will be back in a week or so.’ Darhael’s smirk took on a vicious edge. ‘Perhaps he’ll meet with you then. Unless he already forgot. After all, _his_ only obsession is Temeria.’

 

*

 

To call Darhael's presence "irritating" or "boring" would be an understatement. The understatement of the century or two, even. Usually, the members of Hen Ichaer who disagreed with Iorveth's cause, goals or methods were afraid and wary enough to voice their opinions  _very_ politely. Those who weren't afraid, either belonged to his commandos or supported them. Even Enid, traitor she was, spoke of the Scoia'tael with her highest regard, full of guilt over handing them to the tender hands of Dh’oine interrogators.

Darhael and his... rare virtue of honesty... reminded Iorveth of that dwarf from Flotsam—Einar?—but even he had been intelligent enough to not irritate a Scoia’tael commander, while Darhael seemed to do everything in his power to infuriate Iorveth, if only to preach to him about the true Aen Seidhe virtue of self-control.

Iorveth much preferred the presence of the castle servants. Humans were obviously afraid of him, so they did their jobs quickly and in silence, shivering every time the elf smiled. Elves were wary, too, and tried to speak in Hen Linge with a terrible accent and grammar until he graciously announced it unnecessary.

It was nice. A reminder of his fame, a little bit of control. For the same reason, he trained all days, despite the protests of the castle healers, telling him that he would out-strain himself, that the rehabilitation should be a gradual process. He deflected these with some chauvinistic banalities, hiding his pain and gritted teeth behind a proud, malicious smile.

 

*

 

‘There was a commotion earlier today,’ said Iorveth, maintaining the facade of indifference. ‘Why?’

‘It’s the capital of the biggest vassal of the Empire. Every day there’s some commotion.’

‘But it was unusually loud and you’re avoiding the answer. So, what has happened?’

‘Nothing important.' Darhael shrugged and fell silent. Iorveth hated him so much right now. ‘The delegation returned from Nilfgaard.'

‘ _Roche_ returned from Nilfgaard.’

‘I am not the one obsessed with him. But yes, of course. He was the part of the delegation.’

‘Why hasn’t he come here yet?’

Darhael actually laughed, then. Long and loudly. Certainly like a Dh’oine.

‘You think he has nothing better to do than visiting a poor, ill ex-commander? He's came back from the international delegation. He's going to talk to the queen and the Regency Council, and the military officials first. Then do some scheming with Thaler and the nobles. Get in touch with the court news. Meet with his troops and friends. Maybe find time for a bath and a dinner, and some sleep. Then there will be another busy day for him. But he'll visit you, eventually. He has spent Temerian money on you, after all. Oh,' he added, obviously amused, ‘are you offended?'

Iorveth didn’t deign himself to answer. He announced he's going to train and since he didn't want to offend the elder's fragile senses with the smell of sweat, blood and tears, he would be much grateful if Derhael could leave the room. Now.

 

*

 

Iorveth wasn't sulking. The sole idea was ridiculous. He just lied in his bed, in the middle of the night, reading some foolish Dh'oine ballads and shaking from anger. He had trained like mad, even for his standards, and he was, in fact, completely exhausted, but the anger kept him awake. How Darhael dared—how Roche dared—to... to ignore him! Treat him like the least important matter!

He gritted his teeth. Was his pride hurt? Sure. Was there any reason to let himself be taken by emotions? Surely not. Darhael was the traitor of their race, a slave of Dh’oine. Roche was one of the lowest, most brutal Dh’oine. There wasn’t even shadow of reason to be offended by their opinions. He probably should be more concerned if any of them praised him—

The door cracked and then rambled, slammed. Iorveth jumped to his feet, only to be hit in the solar plexus and, choking, shoved in the corner between the headboard and the wall.

‘Sorry. Old habits die hard.’ Roche didn’t sound sorry at all. His overgown, loosely tied, fell on the floor. His thigh found his way between Iorveth’s legs and his mouth came to elf’s ears, biting them.

Iorveth's cursed the idea of training to exhaustion today—but deep in his heart, he knew that even if he had spent all day in bed, it wouldn't have stood a chance against the man. The damages done by those wretched mages ran deep. He still was weakened, shamefully so.

This realisation made him cease all efforts. This way he might be left with a shred of dignity intact. If he was, carme forbids, to faint, he might as well never say the word “dignity” again.

‘That’s better. Good little elf,’ murmured Roche, pushing away their shirts and pulling down his own breeches. He began to swing his hips, slowly, his already hard cock moving between Iorveth’s legs.

The movement was nice, but the words boiled the blood in elf’s veins. He kicked Roche, aiming for the groin, and pushed him away to the best of his current abilities. Which meant: not strong enough, bloede pest. Not even close to strong enough.

Roche laughed, obviously pleased, hit him back—the elf’s head rang hard on the wall—and trapped his wrists above his head. Iorveth’s threaded wounds itched, but he managed to change the hiss of pain into the curse. Roche laughed again, his breath smelling of alcohol.

‘Would you prefer if I take you on the bed? Aep arse, traditionally?’ With his free hand, he started stroking Iorveth’s hipbone. It was a delicate touch, almost a caress. Yet the grip on elf’s wrist was still firm like shackles. ‘Sorry, I’m too tired for the foreplay.’ His hips were still swaying lightly, creating annoyingly pleasurable friction. ‘But I could be persuaded.’

Iorveth bared his teeth, ignoring the man’s tone, distressingly similar to the one used during interrogations. ‘Perhaps I don’t want it at all.’

‘Perhaps. You weren't so concerned with the consent before, but from the Squirrels I expect nothing but hypocrisy.’

Iorveth tried to break free again. ‘Don’t you dare—you wanted it as much as I did.’

‘It’s not like you asked.’

‘You ki—bit me back, Dh’oine.’

‘Would you have stopped if I hadn't? Not that it matters—you can't stop your cock from rocking my legs. Right now. What is it proving, I wonder?'

That these bloede Dh’oine had put something into Iorveth’s food. To think he would act so eagerly without the influence of some potion seemed like a betrayal. And he had betrayed the Cause for this man too many times already. Even now he wasn’t completely opposed to the idea of... spending some pleasurable time with Roche, and they both knew it. No matter how shameful that sounded—he had already done it.

Not that he was going to admit it aloud. Not that Roche, biting his tattooed leaves like he tried to pluck them with his teeth, cared about him admitting it aloud. Although, if Iorveth kept protesting, did a show of pushing the man away, then Roche would eventually stop. With dozens of curses, but he would.

But Iorveth didn’t plan to fall so low as to play a whore to wake Roche’s complexes. First, it would mean losing—pretending to lose—even more of the control. Second, he would be left in the most uncomfortable position of a half-hard... unfulfilled desire.

Instead, he dodged the next bite and tried to sink to his knees. It didn’t work, of course, Roche was still holding him, but it caught the man’s attention. Surprised attention.

‘You want to...?’ Roche looked almost suspicious, but then his good mood returned. ‘Are you planning to castrate me? It won’t work. We have sorceresses here, they’re able to—’

‘I don’t care about Dh’oine depraved bed fantasies.’

‘Then why?’

Because sucking this bastard off would at least give Iorveth some form of power. Seeing Dh'oine lost in the primitive pleasures, causing him to become lost in them—it would make the situation seem like a ploy, a scheme, a tactical manoeuvre. But, of course, Iorveth couldn't tell him this.

‘I lost. You won.’ He hoped his shrug looked nonchalant. ‘It’s only fair.’

Roche laughed again. Iorveth wrinkled his nose in irritation. Dh’oine and their weakness for alcohol, their vulgar, loud behaviour, their—

‘You refuse to fuck dishonourably? You elves and your rules and codices... You should talk to our aristocrats one day. They cling to the customs of the past, too.' Yet he freed Iorveth hands and made a few steps back, giving the elf space. ‘Sure. You're my guest, after all.'

Iorveth didn’t leave him time to change his mind. He put his palm under Roche’s nightshirt and caress the inner of his thighs, noticing that the man shivered a little at the touch of his cold skin.

Despite his age and tiredness, Roche was already hard. The implications were clear and irritating—how exciting did Roche find Iorveth’s weakness, him being in the Dh’oine power, treated like a caged bird, him struggling hopelessly...? —so the elf ignored them in the favour of technicalities.

Technicalities like remembering to lick and mouth the balls as well as the penis, to slide his teeth over the cock’s skin, threatening and teasing, to contrast the warmth of his breath with the coldness of his hands, to keep the sucking variable in strength and rhythm, slowing them down when Roche seemed close to finish. Roche's shaky breath, his almost desperate moves and the quiet curses escaping his lips was a reward nice enough. Also, Iorveth had his own cock to take care about—he didn’t want to jerk himself off under the scrutiny of the other’s eyes. And elves needed more time than the rabbit-like Dh’oine.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, Roche’s hand came to the right side of Iorveth’s face. The man’s fingers were moving slowly, in a perfect imitation of caress, but the sole feeling of the touch on the scarred skin, the fingertips circling the empty eye-socket, was enough to quicken Iorveth’s pulse. His body was tense so much it hurt.

But that move, no matter how unpleasant, had been expected. And Iorveth knew the means to, ah, strike back.

‘Could you just... I'm fucking exhausted', Roche spat through his teeth when the elf once again ceased the sucking and returned to excruciating, slow moves of the tongue.

There was real tiredness in his voice. Tiredness and tightly-controlled need. Another man might choke Iorveth at this point, fuck his face relentlessly, or just jerk himself off by his own hand—but Roche liked to pretend he was above such things. He liked to pretend he was better, that he used sex as the tool only and never got lost in the whirlwinds of wants and needs.

Iorveth, a firm believer in the Dh’oine's inferiority, couldn’t allow that. He stopped his sucking and let a half-laugh form in his throat, breeze upon Roche’s cock, before turning his face away.

‘No “please”? Should I feel offended?’

Roche cursed. His fingers curled in Iorveth's hair and for a moment the elf thought he had finally pushed him over the edge. Excitement flew through him, even as he winced from the sudden pain.

But the man gritted his teeth, let the air flow through them with a whiz, and eased his fist. ‘I haven't had a good sleep in days,' he said, obviously struggling to sound calm. ‘I would rather have a rest than wait for your cock.'

Bloede Dh’oine, talking control from Iorveth once again, practically forcing him to stop fooling around. Spoiling all the fun.

‘Your kind lack even the modicum of patience,’ snarled Iorveth. But he came back to _the_ _business_.

Roche didn’t answer. He played with the point of Iorveth’s ear, folding it like a piece of paper. It wasn’t painful, just threatening. Cutting the Aen Seidhe’s ears had been one of the classics in the Stripes’ repertoire.

Roche must have thought about the same because he came in a moment—and Iorveth wasn't even trying so much. He just stopped deliberately dragging things.

‘My kind lacks the hundreds-years long lifespan.' Roche continued like nothing had happened, reaching for the elf's cock.

Iorveth dodged his hand. Caerme knows what tortures, murders and atrocities Roche would fantasise of while touching him. 

The man shrugged and went behind the screen obscuring the bathing part of the room, the one with the bowl and towels. To clean himself, surely. He always put oh so much thought into post-coital hygiene. Habit ingrained at home, without doubt, but Iorveth wasn't suicidal enough to comment on it. 

‘And yet you insist on owning all the land, not bothering with the consequences of your actions,’ he hissed instead. ‘It’s like seeing flies conquering the world and knowing you will be alive long enough to see the destruction they short-sighted politics brought.’

‘This can be helped.’ Splashing accompanied Roche’s voice. ‘When would you like to be executed? At dawn?’

Iorveth didn’t bother with the answer. He had his damn cock to finally take care of.  _And some Dh’oine_ had been foolish enough to throw his silken, embroidered, expensive shirt on the floor, probably to avoid drenching it. And if Iorveth ever had stooped so low as to waste his time on erotic fantasies, jerking himself on the Temerian lilies would have been high on his list.

It would have been even better, if Roche, passed by him on the way to the bowl, reacted more strongly than only with a few half-hearted curses. Alas, one couldn’t have everything, so Roche cursed without any real ire, kicked the shirt behind the screen and asked Iorveth if some bullshit Squirrel honour demanded sacred Elder Seed to be washed by elven servants.

‘Squirrel honour would demand no one of the Elder Races be a servant.' Iorveth tried to sound dignified and rinse his mouth simultaneously.

‘Who would serve you then, if you fulfilled your dream of killing all humans? And who, do you think, did serve your elven arses in the past?’

That was a surprisingly pragmatic question. As far as Iorveth knew, mostly from the tales of Scoia'tael dwarves, Aen Seidhe of the past hadn't bothered with the solidarity of the Elder Races. Which was, obviously, a mistake, one which they tried to repair in the commandos, a delicate political matter... But he couldn't tell Roche any of this, so he just focused on gargling. Disapprovingly and with disdain.

The disdain didn’t work on Roche, apparently, because when the elf came back to the bed, he was still there, tightly tangled in the quilts and blankets.

‘Why are you in my bed, stealing my quilt?' Iorveth laid near him, trying to get under the covers. No Dh'oine would exile him from his bed.

‘Because stealing your land wasn’t enough for me.’ The voice coming from beneath the quilts was dripping with pathos. ‘It’s my quilt, elf. My quilt on my bed, standing in my rooms in the castle in the capital of the kingdom I’ve saved, which has made it... let me think... sort of mine?’

Words left Iorveth’s mouth almost on their own volition. ‘Disgusting.’

‘What?’

‘To think of the kingdom as yours. Typical for Dh’oine’s rulers—to think of the country as theirs, theirs, theirs, something to possess and spend, and use as their please, not something to be used by, not something you serve with all your might. Such vanity, such greed... Disgusting.’

‘I know approximately one million dwarfish jokes about sticks in elves arses,’ Roche sounded half-amused, half-exasperated, ‘but I’m too tired to move my mouth so much. Imagine me telling you all of them.’ He lifted the covers a little, showing Iorveth his disinterested back. “Come here, shut up and let me sleep” very clearly stated.

‘Approximately? My, my, don’t choke on such nice words, Roche.’ The elf wasn’t sure where his viciousness was coming from. He hated this man, true, but this—this was just petty. ‘How did you learn them, anyway? You found the dictionary in Foltest’s chamber pot?’

In an instant he had Roche’s fingers on his throat, squeezing bloede hard. It was exciting in the same twisted way their duels had been. The thrill. The promise of the final, absolute freedom. But going without a fight would be dishonourable—and Iorveth wasn’t free of the basic instincts of living creatures, not yet.

He struggled, kicked, scraped, tried to bite. Roche had the advantage of the surprise, though, and he used it well, pining Iorveth jerking body to the mattress.

‘Don’t. you. ever. dare. say. his. name.’ He emphasised every word digging his fingers deeper into Iorveth’s throat, his knees into his groin. ‘He was my... You got him killed. I should have had you quartered for that,’ he added calmer, letting go of the elf’s neck; Iorveth immediately began to cough spasmodically, barely breathing. ‘Fuck. I should have had, gods forgive me. This war, the North’s fall, our vassalage... it’s all because of you.’ Roche seemed to be talking to himself. His gaze was distant and fixated on some point behind Iorveth. Like seeing a ghost. ‘His soul forgive me. I should have had.’

He was shivering a little. Iorveth didn't quite see it, his vision still darkened, but he could feel. And that, more than anything, made him afraid. Dh'oine were prone to hysterics. Who knew what Roche could do in a fit of irrational rage? Dying on the battlefield, on the gallows even, was an expected and sacred death for a Scoia'tael—but dying because of one’s reckless tongue would be pure stupidity. Foolishness hurting the Cause. Just after he preached about the vanity...

The whole deal with Letho had been a foolishness in itself. A terrible, costly mistake. Iorveth would have deeply regretted it if the life of a guerrilla commander allowed for such luxuries like regrets.

‘I’m... sorry,’ he tried.

Roche looked at him, startled. Almost like he’d forgotten the elf was there.

‘For what?' He laughed, like moments before, but there was no joy in the sound now. ‘Squirrels fought for Nilfgaard. You have your equality and tolerance now.' He rolled off Iorveth but left a hand on his neck. Not strangling, just touching, moving his fingers oh so slowly. Admiring his work, probably. ‘And now I'm fighting for the Empire, too. Killed some kings. Betrayed the North. I guess I should understand and let go.' His fingers curled—but stopped in the middle of the move. ‘'tis so damn hard.' He pulled Iorveth's face to himself, turning elf's one eye to the pillow; the familiar fear kicked Iorveth in the stomach. ‘Make me.' Roche's breath ghosted over elf's marred skin. ‘Not even the Emperor defends kingslayers.'

The threat was clear, even if the man's touch was—not gentle, not at all, too possessive for this, but not brutal either. Perhaps just tired. Weak and sloppy, somehow.

Iorveth wasn’t sleepy at all. His veins were pumping with excitement and fear. Not being able to see wasn’t helping. And fear usually made him reckless, taking stupid risks, boasting and gloating. Darhael would say “childish.”

‘You don’t really want to kill me.’ It was hard to talk with the good side of his mouth pressed into the pillow.

Roche’s hand stopped for a moment. ‘I want to. I want to kill you so fucking much. But I don’t want you dead.’

If it were Darhael or Enid talking, Iorveth would accuse them of playing the riddle game. But it was Roche, Dh’oine, and Iorveth wasn’t going to compare these monkeys to the elven elders. Never.

‘Peak Dh’oine. Irrational and ridiculous.’

‘I am not. I want you not-dead, so I could kill you a hundred times, slowly and painfully...’ Roche sounded dreamy. Or just sleepy. His fingers moved along the lines of Iorveth’s scars. ‘But it’s impossible, so I’ll content myself with less.’

‘Keeping me alive and torturing me with Darhael’s presence?’

The fingers stopped. ‘He hurt you?’

‘Some feeble elder? Of course no. He’s just terribly irritating. Isn’t it why you asked him to look after me? To make me suffer his aristocratic smugness?’

‘I didn’t think about your feelings that much. I just trust him.’

‘So he _is_ your informant?’

‘No.’ Deep sigh. ‘I trust him to withstand your charming personality. Maybe want to punish him, now that you mention that. He used to come to Foltest after my every mission, whining about me overstepping my jurisdiction, being too violent, hurting innocents... Ha, like I’d believe there was one innocent soul in the non-human ghetto... I could kill them all and be perfectly within my jurisdiction,’ he was digressing in this half-sensible manner, typical for the almost-sleeping. But this little remark was enough to boil Iorveth’s blood.

‘How you dare speak to me about—‘

‘You've reminded me of the murder of my king. We're even. Iorveth, unlike some, I haven't spent all week in a bed. Let me sleep.'

‘Why did you come to me, then?’

The heavy sigh. ‘All week of Imperial schemes. All week of shouting, arguing and saving Temeria. The adrenaline kept me from resting. Sex works as well as sleeping potions, but without the side-effects. And without asking the sorceresses.’ The rustle of sheets. Roche leaned and slid his dry lips over the elf’s eye-socket. Iorveth jerked and tried to move away, instinctively, but the hand on his face hold him still. ‘And you worked well enough. I just forgot how talkative potion you can be. Perhaps I should cut off your tongue.’

‘And who would please you, then?’

‘Such a tragic choice.’ Some tired amusement slipped into Roche’s voice. ‘Let me sleep, Iorveth. Tomorrow, I’ll let you torture and execute some of the people who’d imprisoned you.’

Now, that sounded nice. The elf might consider it a generous offer if Darhael hadn’t already told him most of Iorveth’s captors were still alive. Tortured, beaten, wishing for death probably, but alive. Iorveth hadn’t doubted, even for a moment, that Roche planned to use them as a bribe. A token of his goodwill. And if so, then this was, in fact, the lowest offer. Aen Seidhe never sold their skins so cheaply.

‘Say “please”.’

‘Say “promise”.’

Iorveth pondered the choice for a moment. Allowing Roche some sleep for the pleasure of hearing his “please” seemed a great deal. A little too good to be true. But still—the elf himself could use some rest. And watching Roche sleep would have a nice ring of control and possession to it, even if the man, accustomed to slums and field circumstances, hadn’t noticed it.

‘I promise.’

‘Thank you, little Squirrel. Now, shut up and let me sleep, _please_.’ There was an amused nonchalance in Roche’s voice, the one of an adult indulging the whims of a child, an owner playing with a dog. 

Roche's thumb caressed the elf's face once again, then he rolled back. The elf immediately lifted his good eye from the pillow, cursing in his thoughts. Roche managed to spoil the moment perfectly, not only here and now, but also for the future. If Iorveth would ever be in a position of actual power over him, even the true begging would bring the memories of the current humilia… situation.

Yet he gave his word and so he had no choice but to shut his lips, offended and ignored, steal a place under the cover for himself, close his eyes and let the fantasies—plans—of torturing the Dh’oine tomorrow lull him to sleep.

 


End file.
